Christine Wilcox is the 1st place winner of Streetlight‘s 2025 Flash Fiction Contest

“I’m not doubting you,” the Angel said to the Demon. “But why can’t you just resubmit the application? Surely if she’s as bad as you claim—”

“Look!” the Demon said. “She’s melting even more cheese on her pizza.”

The Angel watched the woman drop a handful of shredded cheese into the air fryer, where she’d placed a leftover slice of pizza. “Hmm,” he said. “She’s taken care of her body otherwise, though.” He paged through the papers on his clipboard. “Is she lactose intolerant?”

The Demon shook his head, exasperated. “The point is, she ordered extra cheese. I mean, how much cheese does one person need?”

They waited as the cheese melted, the Angel tapping one wing against the other, the Demon staring blankly, a trickle of drool making its way down his long chin. Finally the woman took the overloaded slice of pizza to the couch and turned on Gossip Girl. Her dog, a serious looking golden retriever named Miller, sat hopefully at her feet.

“Is it gluttony?” the Angel asked suddenly. “You did get the memo about gluttony, didn’t you? We phased it out.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The Angel laughed. “My Heavens, can you imagine how crowded you’d be in a few years if we hadn’t?”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The Angel lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I think He did it because they came out with those Reece’s Cinnabons. He loves them.”

The Demon sighed. “Be quiet and watch.”

The Angel’s face fell. “Fine.”

The woman took a bite of pizza, and then another. Miller began to salivate. He gently put his chin on her knee.

The Angel glanced at his watch. “She’s got an average rating, you know. Always returns her shopping cart. Calls her mom. I understand that you have feelings about this, but I just don’t think I can justify it.”

“Does Miller want some cheese?” the woman asked in a sing-song voice.

Miller raised his head and sat up very straight.

The woman popped the last blob of cheese into her own mouth. “Psych!” she said, and laughed.

Miller slumped and looked away.

“Ah. I see,” the Angel said briskly. “We certainly can’t have that. When is she scheduled to go?”

“Right now,” the Demon said, as the woman choked on the cheese. “I’ll take it from here.”

Christine Wilcox studied creative writing at the University of Maine, which prepared her to write a great deal of policy-related gobbledygook for the Commonwealth of Virginia. She’s also published thirty plus nonfiction books for teens, as well as a few short stories in a few little magazines, and she’s currently working on a novel. Christine lives outside of Roanoke, Va. with her husband and son and the dogs no one wanted: Aardvark, Roadblock, and Cookie-Pie.